Horseman: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 10 (The Temple Chronicles) Read online

Many already had a personal feel – both for and against – judging by the graffiti.

  Tonight was all about calming people down. I needed to appease them and the Regulars, both.

  So that I could get back to my own drama.

  Mordred was out there somewhere, probably doing something nefarious. And it was my fault, since I’d busted him out of Hell. I hadn’t heard a word about his actions, and that made me very nervous. Everyone who knew about it had seemed so horrified that he had broken free from Hell – obviously categorizing the illegitimate son of King Arthur in the not a nice guy category – so I had expected instant chaos and destruction… somewhere. But I hadn’t heard a peep – from gods, legends, or any of my fellow monsters – about him. Maybe he was taking a vacation, to start. He’d been locked up for centuries, after all.

  Hell wasn’t known for its golf courses or mixed drink specials.

  I did know for a fact that he wanted to decimate anything related to Camelot and its memory. I glanced up at the clock and cursed. I was on in one minute. Ready to address the growing topic of misinformation and truth in media. Numerous online videos were popping up like weeds after a storm – all showing magic or monsters on film. Either the monsters were getting careless, they were purposely letting themselves be recorded – which wasn’t a good thing – or it was inevitability at work. Everything was on camera these days, so it only made sense that monsters would occasionally make a cameo.

  My goal today was to discredit the clips. Since I was the poster child for getting caught doing stupid stuff on camera and garnering a lot of buzz about the recent street art, it made sense they wanted me to appear in public. Also, I’d once been outed as a wizard during an eclipse convention a few years ago. It had died down soon after – I’d killed the man who put me in that position, Alaric Slate – but now it was back in everyone’s minds. I was probably the only one to have any credibility on the matter, if for no other reason than because I’d once been called a wizard at a public event.

  Tonight I was going to be cool, calm, and collected. Change the narrative.

  I opened my dressing room door and approached the stage entrance. I waited in the wings, listening to the announcer give a quick biography of me. I would deliver a quick speech, shake some hands, and then I could get back to my research.

  Because I had much more important things to do than public relations.

  Mordred was out there, with the Nine Souls he had stolen from Hell. I didn’t know who the Nine Souls actually were, but I knew they had been in a solitary confinement of sorts, always spoken about in hushed tones. But for Mordred to have stolen them meant he had bad things planned.

  Soon.

  If I couldn’t find Mordred, I needed to find out what he was after, which I assumed was anything to do with the destruction of Camelot. My ancestor, Matthias Temple, had recently kidnapped one of King Arthur’s supposed Knights, and had him holed up… somewhere. Maybe it was time to visit.

  I had found very little concrete information about Mordred. Stories abounded about him, but almost all were contradictory. He was allegedly the illegitimate son of King Arthur and his enchantress half-sister, Morgause, but sometimes he was referred to as more of an adopted son or nephew. Gotta’ love that Medieval Spin, right? Oh, no. I didn’t sleep with my sister, we just found the boy…

  I couldn’t fault Mordred’s bone-deep hatred, just where he directed it.

  Some stories said Mordred had died at the Battle of Camlann, but not before giving Arthur a fatal wound. Some said Mordred was a wizard. Others, a knight. Some said he had been a better ruler than Arthur. Some said a traitor.

  Since I’d met him in Hell, I had a pretty good idea of where he fit on the bad versus evil spectrum.

  The announcer called out my name, and I heard the seated audience burst into applause.

  I stepped out of the wings and through the curtain, smiling confidently. The bright lights were a little excessive, so I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust. It would be embarrassing to stumble on my way to the podium…

  My smile faltered momentarily as I noticed the announcer carrying the podium away. Instead, a rectangular table sat in the center of the stage, overlooking the fifty or so round tables of St. Louis’ elites, all wearing sparkling dresses and crisp suits, and surrounded by bottles of wine and platters of exquisite food. I spotted Callie, and she looked ready to murder everyone in the room.

  A man sat at the table on the stage, and he was patting the empty chair beside him, smiling invitingly for me to join him. A microphone sat before each seat, and a placard on the front of the table told me in all capital letters who my new co-speaker was.

  MOE DREDD.

  NATE TEMPLE.

  I stared at the name in disbelief, then at the man, somehow maintaining my smile for the audience. Any hesitation on my part could easily be answered by no one having told me I would have a co-speaker. But this was so much worse than my pride taking a body-shot.

  Moe began to clap, flashing a beaming smile out at the crowd, and then back to me. His eyes flickered with amusement – he was basically laughing in my face.

  He looked a lot better than when I had last seen him breaking out of Hell.

  Mordred cleaned up well, apparently.

  Tonight had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

  Chapter 3

  I sat down next to Mordred, instinctively ready for a magical fight even though we were in front of a dozen cameramen, photographers, and several hundred of St. Louis’ wealthiest citizens. Was Mordred intending to answer the topic of the night with a big display of show and tell?

  Or did he have another motive?

  Mordred was no longer a smudged charcoal stain, but a tall, fit, dark-haired, middle-aged man with icy green eyes. His jaw was harsh and angular, and his long hair was tied back in a bun, looking like it would reach his shoulders when let down. But those eyes… they danced with shadows, zipping back and forth behind his obviously fake, round-lensed spectacles. It was something a wizard like myself could easily discern, and I wondered if other Freaks would be able to pick up on it. His three-piece tweed suit made him look like nothing more than an adjunct professor slumming it with the elites. Just an academic let out of his cage for the night.

  The crowd continued to applaud, and my eyes locked onto Callie – who had masked her anger, and now sat on the edge of her seat. Mordred leaned in close, and there was nothing unassuming about the waves of power I felt emanating from him. He was strong as hell. Quite literally. “It is so good to see you again, Nate. I had no idea my savior was so distinguished.” He placed a very warm palm on my shoulder and patted it twice, smiling out at the crowd.

  “What are you doing here, Moe?” I hissed, emphasizing his bullshit name. “I had hoped you would find a quiet place to resume your calligraphy hobby. Maybe sell your creepy wall-art online,” I said, referring to the names he had carved into the walls of his prison cell about a billion times. I was sure to maintain my smile for the crowd, even though I felt like I had just stepped into a boxing ring. “I thought you wanted to destroy Camelot?”

  He chuckled good-naturedly, not a flicker of menace on his stark features. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, Temple.” Up close, I could see a tightness around his eyes, the tension of restraining the abundance of power the Nine Souls were pumping into him.

  The audience quieted and I noticed a felt pen on our table. I abruptly uncapped it, took my name placard, and wrote KING in front of my name. I carefully repositioned the placard in front of me, smiling absently at the audience. “If enough people say it, maybe it will become true,” I said in a not so humble tone. I heard several cheers, but most just laughed politely, turning to my co-speaker.

  Mordred took the pen, thought for a moment, and then swept up his own placard, drawing a large letter R between his two names, MOE R. DREDD. He capped the pen and shrugged humbly. “I don’t have a crown, but I do have a middle name,” he said into his microphone, using his finger
to push the bridge of his glasses up, smiling wide.

  The audience began to clap, adoring the nerdy little wanker.

  I nodded my head in resignation, waiting for the announcer to begin. Was this some kind of debate? Or was it still about the public concerns over inexplainable online videos? I hadn’t heard a whisper about having a partner on stage, which made me think I had been set up. But who would have agreed to such a plan? Effectively putting a celebrity like me in the crosshairs without prior warning. That was a career-ending move.

  Or a career starting move. Mordred had been busy, because I knew he had to be involved. A man with no ties to the community could have only gotten a seat beside me with a lot of money changing hands, or a lot of blackmail and extortion.

  The announcer cleared his throat. “I’m so glad you were able to join us this evening, Mr. Dredd,” he said warmly, smiling at Mordred, who nodded back politely.

  “It’s a pleasure to be seated beside Master—” he hesitated, glancing up at the placard I had modified. Then he leaned closer to the microphone as if to impart a secret, “King Temple,” he corrected with a wide grin. The words boomed through the room like a cavalry of invading horses, and I winced. He blushed at the technical faux pas, as if he hadn’t known full-well the microphone was perfectly calibrated. King Temple echoed in the room, and the audience looked truly uncomfortable for a heartbeat before smiling at the apologetic look on Mordred’s face. I gritted my teeth, pretending to smile.

  “I think the St. Louis Police Department appreciates your generosity even more,” the announcer said.

  Mordred nodded soberly. “Our Knights in Shining Armor deserve more than they get. I’m just trying to help.” Many in the crowd clapped lightly, especially the Commissioner and Mayor. This was their language – politics. Mordred had just made two new friends. The bastard.

  It was very difficult for me to maintain my smile and not grit my teeth. I managed a happy medium that I hoped no one picked up on. He had made a hefty donation to the police department. That explained things. He’d greased some palms to get here and looked like a saint doing it.

  But why?

  He could have met up with me at any point if he had wanted to. I’d been searching him out for some time, now. He had to have a different motive for tonight. This event was public, which meant he had a message to deliver, whether everyone knew it or not.

  My eyes latched onto the various representatives of the supernatural community in the audience, and I suddenly felt a pit of fear in my stomach. Did this have to do with them? Was he… rallying an army?

  The announcer was speaking again, more to the crowd than us. Mordred leaned in, and I had to fight not to flinch away. “Remember to smile, Nate. I’d hate for them to think we’re not old friends. I’d hate to have to tell them how we met. Maybe show them how we met… I rather like my newfound freedom, and it would be inconvenient for everyone if a few Calavera coincidentally appeared to take me back home. I might even devolve to violence. In self-defense, of course.”

  Then he was leaning away, smiling at the announcer.

  I grimaced inwardly. If that happened, many would die. Also, it would pretty much put a pin in the conversation about magic not being real. He had me by the short hairs. Play ball, or today might go down in history as the day the world lost their collective shit – in that monsters and magic were very real.

  “There is much talk about false news,” the announcer began, reading from his notes, “inaccurate articles shared online, or doctored videos going viral, the authors publicizing them strictly to incite fear in our great city, let alone the nation.”

  What had Mordred posed as, other than a philanthropist? A politician? Was he in agreement with my planned stance, or opposed to it? I took a breath, clearing my head as the announcer continued in an uplifting tone, playing both sides against the middle, riling up the audience.

  I noticed several familiar faces in the crowd. Many of my friends were present. Many of them were also on my comms network, but no one was using the earbuds at the moment, not wanting to distract me.

  Raego Slate – the king of the dragons, or Obsidian Son – sat near the front, leaning back in his chair, ankles crossed and arms folded as if incredibly bored. Raego was like a long-haired James Dean. His tie was loose, and he hadn’t bothered with a suitcoat, just a dress shirt and vest. His slacks were carefully tailored to his exact size, and he wore very expensive crocodile skin dress shoes, which I thought might have been disrespectful, but apparently were not.

  Beside him sat Baron Skyfall and Enya – a woman so beautiful and deadly, she needed no last name.

  Enya was pale with long, strawberry blonde golden hair and emerald eyes. Her green cocktail dress glittered like scales, flattering her already perfect body beyond realistic expectations for most women. And she knew it. She probably looked good in whatever she put on. Or took off.

  Baron, on the other hand, was a robust, English black man. He wore a sharp, white suit, complete with an orange pocket square that would have matched his irises if he hadn’t been wearing contacts to conceal what he was. Because dragons had horizontal slits for pupils – like demonic goats – rather than the vertical pupils of most serpents. Very noticeable.

  The colors of their irises also told you – kind of – what flavor of dragon you might be dealing with, and what their powers may be.

  He was bald as an egg, and sported dark freckles on his brown cheeks, just below his eyes. Compensating for his shiny dome, he had a dense, but short white beard. He was a tall, buff bastard, easily twice as wide as most men, and had a thick neck. He was larger than Gunnar, but differently proportioned.

  Tory Marlin – the Headmistress at Shift, our school for orphan shifters – was seated at a table of politicians. She wore a flashy pantsuit, her hair tucked back in a bun, making her look like a harmless school principal. Which she was. And wasn’t. She was a Beast Master, able to control shifters at will. She was also abnormally strong, like ‘swing a motorcycle with one arm,’ strong.

  Gunnar Randulf – the alpha werewolf of St. Louis – also leaned back in his chair as if lounging. Ironically, he wore a silver suit, his thick blonde beard covering up most of his tie. His stone eyepatch reflected the light, and I caught many women sizing him up hungrily. Luckily for them, his wife, Ashley, wasn’t present or they would already be dead. She was likely watching over the pack in his absence. I knew his lieutenants, Drake and Cowan were lurking about somewhere, but I didn’t see them.

  Because none of us had considered tonight’s event all that important, as long as I said my piece on live camera. Just putting a bandage on an age-old topic. Again.

  Point for Mordred – intentional or not.

  What concerned me were the other faces in the crowd, those I didn’t have a personal connection with, but were obviously representatives of various supernatural families in town. Othello had done some research into the attendees, even though I would need to have a hard talk with her about missing the surprise guest.

  The announcer finally finished up his introduction and addressed me, asking my opinion on the numerous videos. He even played a few on the screen behind us, the lights in the room dimming. Mordred and I both turned to watch along with the audience. I was sure to chuckle and shake my head for appearances but kept quiet as they played. More than a few depicted dragons flying across the skies of St. Louis a few weeks ago.

  From when I had declared St. Louis as mine and sent emissaries out to the ruling families. The very same night I had broken Mordred out of Hell.

  I smiled good-naturedly as the lights brightened, turning back to the microphone. “It seems we have a talented kite-maker in town. If he comes forward, maybe I can hire him to work for me at Grimm Tech. We’re always looking for innovators. Perhaps he’s the next Leonardo da Vinci.”

  Mordred considered me in silence, and I held my breath.

  Chapter 4

  Finally, Mordred nodded his agreement. “I, too, think the simple
st explanation is usually the most accurate. Then again, it would be wonderful if such creatures truly did exist. Just imagine, knowing you are sitting beside a dragon…” his twinkling gaze scanned the crowd, resting on Raego for a moment. The king of the dragons, the Obsidian Son, pretended not to notice, suddenly pouring another drink and laughing with his friends, Baron and Enya.

  I was glad the shifter dragons were wearing contacts to conceal their strangely colored eyes – and their horizontal pupils. That would have made things awkward.

  Several members of other supernatural families looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  The two dragons shook their heads good-naturedly, and Baron even flapped his hands dramatically, like wings. “Rawr!” Those at their table chuckled, turning back to the stage. But I saw Raego’s eyes. They were cold and ruthless as he sipped his drink, peering over the rim at Mordred.

  Mordred winked back playfully.

  The announcer brought us back on topic. “Several years ago, we had a convention here during a solar eclipse. The topic was brought up – after a series of… unfortunate events you were involve—”

  “Allegedly,” I said in a dry tone. “They never proved I was a malevolent wizard, much to my dismay,” I added, shaking my head in mock disappointment. “Or else I would have added dark wizard to my card,” I said, picking it up to show the crowd.

  The announcer’s lips tightened briefly, not pleased I had stolen his thunder. “Which is my point. A gentleman named Alaric Slate stated that you were a wizard, but he seemed to disappear after suggesting a coalition of what he called Freaks.”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps he realized how ridiculous the idea sounded after talking it over with his Public Relations team. A healthy imagination can inspire, but oftentimes it’s best left where it belongs, rather than involving the rest of the world in your childhood dreams of fairies, trolls, and unicorns.” I glanced back at the screen where they had played the video a moment ago. “Or dragons,” I added, rolling my eyes.